


No Greater Service

by goldenhart



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhart/pseuds/goldenhart
Summary: St Petersburg, 1812. After an attempt on the Tsar's life leaves Hornblower gravely injured, Bush is summoned to the palace to deal with the fall-out.
Relationships: William Bush & Horatio Hornblower
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	No Greater Service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [XY_DB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XY_DB/gifts).



> This fic owes a debt of gratitude to the ever-creative marwanthefirst on Livejournal whose fic _For Want of a Friend_ (https://marwanthefirst.livejournal.com/948.html) inspired the question of 'what would happen if Hornblower had been shot trying to save the Tsar's life?'
> 
> Warnings for mild injury.

The message was delivered to the captain’s cabin at four bells in the middle watch as the ship rode at anchor in the Gulf of Kronstadt. A diplomatic situation had arisen at the Peterhof Palace and Captain William Bush’s presence was requested immediately on account of the Commodore Hornblower’s incapacity… Bush was dressed and on the quarterdeck before his steward even had a chance to offer assistance. He remembered little of the journey to the palace, only the snow which seemed to be falling more thick with every minute that passed. Wychwood, still dressed in his scarlet tunic and bearskin, met the carriage with a body of Imperial Guards who surrounded the carriage at once, their hands on their sabres.

“Where is he?” barked Bush, all but throwing himself from the carriage, his stump jarring painfully as his wooden leg made contact with the hard-packed snow. He winced involuntarily but set his mouth in a firm line as he eyed up Wychwood.

“They’ve put him in one of the bedchambers,” said Wychwood, almost apologetically. “But the Tsar awaits your presence immediately.”

Bush bit back the snarl of frustration that sprung to his lips: were Wychwood a hapless lieutenant Bush might well unleash it, but it would not do so to behave in such an uncouth manner towards a lord. Instead he stood up to his full height and tried to imagine what his admired commodore would say next, even as anxiety gripped him tight. “I must see Commodore Hornblower, my lord,” he said, and when Wychwood raised a hand in protest Bush added: “I must see myself that he is incapable before I make any attempt to speak on his behalf, sir, or else receive orders from his lips.” The _sir_ was almost an afterthought, so distracted was he at the thought of Hornblower lying wounded.

Wychwood nodded, and said something in rapid French to the Imperial Guards. One of them — their captain, Bush assumed, judging from his uniform — nodded and snapped an order to his men. “Follow me,” said Wychwood, gesturing for Bush to walk beside him. “I will explain along the way.”

The circumstances quickly became painfully clear: Hornblower had unwittingly brought an assassin to the palace who had attempted to take the life of the Tsar using the selfsame pistols that Hornblower had recently been given by his mistress. The Tsar would be dead were it not for Hornblower putting himself between the murderer and his target: the bullet meant to kill the Tsar had ended in Hornblower’s stomach where it lodged itself quite firmly. According to Wychwood a surgeon had advised operating to remove the blasted thing but could not do so without word from the Tsar, who, it seemed, was still undecided on the question of if Hornblower should be allowed to die as penance for his unintended act of treason. It seemed such an unfathomable cruelty that the word of one man should decide whether another should live or suffer and die that Bush, for the first and only time in his life, briefly wondered if the French hadn’t been entirely mad to kill their king.

“In here,” said Wychwood, drawing up before a tall door much like all the others in these seemingly endless hallways. A guard pushed it open and Bush stepped inside, his heart pounding in his chest, terrified beyond words over just what he might find on the other side.

The bedchamber was grander than any Bush had ever seen before, with ornate gilding crowning the green damasked walls, dominated by an enormous canopied bed but Bush paid little attention to it all; what mattered was the body lying on the bed, a horribly small figure against the vastness of the room. The other officers who had accompanied Hornblower sat clustered around the fire: at the sight of _Nonsuch_ ’s captain they rose to their feet but Bush did not glance their way as he hurried to the side of the bed. The room smelt of blood and sickness, so potent that even Bush's cast-iron stomach revolted against it. Hornblower did not move at the sight of Bush looming over him; only the rise and fall of his bare chest gave any indication he was alive. Hornblower’s clothes had been cut off — as best Bush could guess, remembering his own wounding — and he lay on the bed with a sheet drawn up over his waist, so pale and still that Bush could not help but think of a corpse. His stomach was bound with white bandages, now stained red and growing darker with every breath.

“Sir,” he whispered, his voice broken and pleading to his own ears. He cleared his throat and barked at young Somers to bring him a chair, which was promptly delivered by the young officer who quickly removed himself from his commander’s vicinity. Wychwood stood at the doorway, waiting on Bush to finish conducting his business, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, the thought of the Tsar’s ire likely weighing on his head. The Tsar could hang, for all Bush cared; it was Hornblower who occupied his foremost thoughts. “Sir,” he whispered again, daring in his distress to take Hornblower’s hand in his. Hornblower’s long, slender fingers were chilled and clammy in Bush’s warm rough hands: he chafed them gently, hoping to somehow restore some warmth to Hornblower’s cold body. “Sir, speak to me.”

Hornblower turned his head on the pillow, dark lashes fluttering against pale cheeks. Slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes, lighting at last on Bush sitting there beside his bed. “Bush,” he murmured between cracked lips, and Bush wept, uncaring of what Hornblower might think of him. He felt Hornblower’s hand withdraw from between his own, and for a moment he was certain that Hornblower would chastise him for such a common display of emotion, but then cool fingers touched his cheek, cradling his face, and Bush covered that hand with his own, pressing his cheek against it, desperate for the strength the simple touch lent him.

“Oh, sir,” he said, quiet enough that the other officers might not hear him. “Oh, sir.”

In the dim light of the fire Hornblower’s eyes glittered black, bright with pain. “The Tsar,” he said weakly, and Bush nodded. “I’m sorry, Bush,” said Hornblower, and Bush saw in those black depths an aching sorrow that could not be named. “I’m sorry.” His thumb stroked Bush’s cheek, wiping away his tears, and Bush closed his eyes, grateful for this smallest of gesture of affection.

“If I had known about Braun, sir…” began Bush, opening his eyes again, but Hornblower shook his head.

“No,” he said. “None of that. You couldn’t…” He grimaced and drew a shuddering breath: gripped by terrible agony, if Bush was any judge of it. “You couldn’t have known. Listen…” And so he laid out in exacting detail the exact things that Bush would say to the Tsar, pausing every so often to fight through another wave of pain.

When Hornblower had finished in his instructions Bush stood to go, but Hornblower caught his hand and held him fast. “Sir?” asked Bush, concerned by the way that Hornblower’s face contorted.

“Come here,” rasped Hornblower, and Bush obeyed, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

“What is it, sir?”

Hornblower inhaled sharply, his hand clasped tightly in Bush’s as he looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Bush’s heart went out to him then, and he would have given anything, sworn anything, so long as Hornblower might live. For a moment it seemed he might say something, but then his expression hardened into something more like that which he wore on the quarterdeck.

“Nothing,” he said, and Bush could have wept again at the realisation that Hornblower could not ask for what he so desperately desired.

“I’ll come back to you, sir,” he swore, pressing Hornblower’s hand tightly. “I promise.” Hornblower’s eyes were closed, but he nodded. Desperate to communicate his faithfulness Bush kissed Hornblower’s hand, then his feverish cheek. “I won’t leave you alone, sir,” he promised, and rose to his feet. Hornblower squeezed his hand one last time, then withdrew, leaving Bush to carry the weight of his friend’s life on his shoulders. Like all burdens, he would bear it well: he stood up straight and tall and stumped over to the door. He did not look back; there was no sense in wasting more time on worry, not when Hornblower’s life lay in the balance. Bush would see to it that Hornblower lived, that was his duty: he could think of no greater service than this.

“Ready, sir?” asked Wychwood.

“Yes, my lord,” said Bush. “Lead the way.”


End file.
